Missing my Beast

Ryan and I just got back from five days in Boston. We saw historic sites. We ate seafood. We went to the movies. We went to dinner after 6:30 and stayed out until after 11pm. We slept in. We wandered around Harvard Square and various old cemeteries. 


Mostly though? We missed Meg. 


That probably sounds silly to a lot of you. I know it did to me up until the point we boarded the plane on Tuesday. I thought it would be good to get away, to spend some time alone with my husband, and alone with myself; to remember what it is like to be an "adult" who doesn't think about if a menu has kid friendly foods, or where the nearest "potty" may be in case of emergency. 


I did all those things, of course. And it was really nice to sit outside at a bistro talking to Ryan and not worrying about chasing a toddler around the sidewalk. It was nice to hear there was a 30 minute wait for a table at brunch, and not decide to go somewhere else because a meltdown was imminent. For all those nice moments though, there were just so many more moments that Meg would have made better. 


Going to the aquarium? Yep. Spying wildlife in the cemeteries? Yep. Checking out the buskers near Harvard. Definitely. Eating anything? Totally. Taking the train? Meg loves trains so much that every ride would have been a treat. 


It was Thursday night when Ryan and I finally reached our breaking point. We had both had out moments, but kept telling each other that when we looked back on this trip we would remember just the time we got to spend together, not the time we didn't get to spend with Meg. Then we went to see the movie "Beasts of the Southern Wild." 


For those of you who haven't seen it yet, "Beasts" is a pretty heart wrenching movie anyway. It is even more heart wrenching though when you realize the little girl at the center of it, the one who keeps yelling for her "mama" looks very similar like the child you are missing 3-thousand miles away. Oh, and kind of acts like her too. 

Meg. 

Movie. 

By the end of the film Ryan and I were both sloppy, sobbing messes. The two small napkins we had gotten at the concession stand in case our popcorn was too greasy (as if that is really a thing), had now been shredded and melted with tears. The collar of his t-shirt looked like he had been in a rainstorm, and my bra was dripping like I was having a hot flash. 

If it hadn't been so much to change the tickets (yes, we checked), we would have gotten on a plane right then. 

Meg will be going on our next trip with us. And the one after that. Oh, and the one after that. Actually, she will be pretty much going on every trip we take from now until we can no longer force her to be seen with us. Yes, Ryan and I will likely miss out on some romantic moments. Yes, the trips will cost more and be driven by different agendas. It's a trade off though. Meg is three now. It seems like just yesterday she was a dream in my head. It will just be tomorrow that she is asking to be dropped off two blocks away from the mall and wanting to go "camping" instead of on a family trip. So, I am going to treasure every vacation I can. It will be worth passing up funky Chinese dumpling shops to find some place with cheese noodles. I will just keep a list of all the dumpling shops for trips Ryan and I take when we retire. Our "doughy goodness world tour" if you will. 

Oh, and the next time I see "Beasts" I am investing in Kleenex first. 

Read more →

Literally

We were at a restaurant recently when a group of little people came and sat at the table right next to us. Meg, having never seen little people before, was curious; and because she was curious, was staring. I could almost see the thought bubbles above her head. Were these kids? If so, where were their parents? And why were they acting like parents to some of the kids with them? 


While I understood her curiosity, and I wanted to answer her questions, I also did NOT want to be the person with the ill mannered, staring child. So, I leaned over to her and very quietly said "Meggo, it's not polite to look at people when they may not want you looking at them. Do you understand?" She nodded, and I assumed I had handled the situation and could explain to her about little people later. I went back to my dinner and talking to others at the table. Then Ryan nudged me, and inclined his head towards Meg. 


She was eating with her eyes closed. 


If she happened to open them, say to figure out exactly where something was on her plate, she would clap her hands over her eyes if she happened to catch sight of the little people at the table next to us. Turns out that while I thought I said "please don't stare," Meg heard "don't look at them at all." As they were directly in her line of sight, the only thing to do was to close her eyes. 


I should have known to pick my words more carefully, since every word that comes out of anyone's mouth right now is taken as the total, unabashed truth to Meg. The other day when her Dad told her to hold a baseball bat higher, meaning choke up on it, she instead waved it above her head like she was fighting off birds of prey. When Luke and his friends were screaming they were "taking over the ship" as they played on the jungle gym in my mom's backyard Meg became distraught because she assumed it meant she could never get to play there again. 


And don't even get me started on how she doesn't get sarcasm. 


I guess it was about the age of five when Luke stopped being so literal and started getting the "gist" of things. That means we have about two more years of having to explicitly explain everything. 


After all, we don't want her going through life with her eyes closed. 

Read more →

Meg Has Two Moms

When we first brought Meg home I was all about semantics. If someone asked questions about "her mother" I was quick to come back with answers about "her birth mother." I practically snarled it at times, making sure they got the point that I was THE mom as far as Meg is concerned.


Now, I am ashamed I did that.


I may as well have lifted my leg and peed on Meg, because that's all I was trying to do, claim ownership of her. Let the world know that I am her mother, and no one can take that away from me. At the time I was bewildered, and unsure of how this was going to all work out. I was still angry over the fact my own body had failed me, and felt any control I had over the situation was tenuous at best. I wasn't sure if I would be a good mother, and, above all else, I was scared. I was scared for me. I was scared for Meg. I was scared for Meg's Mom. I didn't want all of us to be making a huge mistake. I was parenting from a place of fear, and that is never a good place to start making decisions.


Meg has two Moms. There is nothing wrong with that. Neither one of us wins when a qualifier is placed before the title of the other. By trying to place a qualifier on either I think the real loser ends up being Meg, because it implies she is something other than what she is: a kid who is lucky enough to have many, many people who love her, and want to see her grow and succeed. I don't want her to ever question that there is a hierarchy of people who love her.


Also, the standard qualifiers are kind of stupid if you ask me. "Birth Mom" implies that all Meg's Mom did was pop her out. It doesn't take into account all the time she spent with her in the womb, all of the genetics and history she passed along to her, or the care, love, and concern she has showered on Meg since she came into this world. And "Adoptive Mom?" This one I guess I closer to the truth, I did adopt Meg, but I like to think that was just the beginning of it all. Since then I have been "Mom who buys band aids," "Mom who chases imaginary frogs," "Mom who yelled when she probably shouldn't have," and many, many other kinds of Mom. I think it's easier just to keep it short and sweet.


Now, I am not saying that this is easy. I know there are going to be times I will want to have a "Meg's Mom" tattoo that I can show her if/when she decides to have tantrums centered around the argument "you're not my real Mom." However, I think I will just have to remind myself in those moments that she is coming from a place of hurt, or disappointment, or just being a brat, and that good decisions never come from those places either.


Then I will take a long deep breath, and be thankful for that child.


Oh, and for her Mom.






*Inspired by Kelly at "Monkey Soup." Really, go check out her blog. 

Read more →

Buying a Cage -- For the Fight

I am sitting here trying to write this post, which is supposed to be about very important things, but I am being distracted by the mounting rumble in my living room. Did bikers move in, I am sure you are asking. Or ruffians? Or circus people? No, no, and no. The battle royale is between my 2-year old, and her 8-year old cousin, Luke. 


In the past ten minutes I have heard the following: 

• "Meg called me stupid." 
• "Luke is stupid." 
• "Meg, I'm going to put you in a black hole."
• Meg screaming.
• "Get out! Get out! Get out!"
• "Don't hit me with 'Tangled,' Meg."
• Luke screaming. 
• "Don't touch that! Don't touch that!" 
• "Get your feet off my back!"
• Both of them screaming. 
• "She can't be Johnny Cash! I'm Johnny Cash!" (They saw "Million Dollar Quartet.")
• "I'm Johnny Cash!"
• "Give it back! Give it back Give it back!"
• "Am I a pancake?" (Yeah, I'm really not sure where that came from.)

I have gone in there twice when I have been pretty sure bloodshed was imminent, but I am really trying to make them work it out on their own. Well, that, and I am trying to write this very important post. 


There was one moment of peace, but it involved Luke playing his guitar while Meg played her accordion. I guess it was nice that for a short time neither one of them was in danger, but it still burned my ears and sent the dog running for cover. It was only for a few seconds though, until Meg decided she wanted to be in the guitar case and the brawl began again. 


Hell, I might as well give up. I am never going to get this very important blog post done with all this racket. 


I guess you'll never know what I think of this fabulous invention: 

Oh, wait! Maybe if they make them in kids sizes as well as babies all my problems will be solved. 


I mean, as long as I don't hang Luke and Meg within kicking distance...

Read more →

Grow it, Show it

My hair has gotten long.

Wait, no, that's not accurate.

My hair has gotten too damn long.

No, I am not talking Crystal Gayle length or anything, because that would be too damn crazy ass long. However, it has gotten long enough that when I see people I haven't seen in a while the first thing they say is "wow, look at your hair." That's actually the only time I am really grateful my hair has gotten as long as it has because they could say, "Wow, you've put on weight!" and that would be a true statement as well. The hair distracts them.

All other times, though? I do not like this hair.

There are really only two styles I can do with it: straight down and ponytail. I tried doing a half up, half down style that I used to love when I had mid-length hair, but I just ended up kind of looking like a Polygamist wife. That is not a look you want to have in Utah. I have tried braiding it, but with the aforementioned weight gain I end up looking like a pin head. Also, braiding would violate all of my rules for how a woman my age should behave.

My hair is everywhere now. It's its own entity. I find it in balls under the table, or wisps on my desk. Meg is always saying "your hair is on me," and it usually is, even if I am standing ten feet away.  As it gets longer it seems to get thicker too, reaching out to overtake everything around it. Oh, and don't even get me started on how it gets in the way when I am trying to be "amorous." I am beginning to worry my husband must have an Addams Family fetish because dalliances with me have become like getting it on with Cousin It.

So, then, why don't I just go ahead and cut it?

Because my daughter thinks it's beautiful, and I love the way I look through her eyes.

I love the fact she likes to pull my hair across her mouth and make a moustache. I love that she likes to sit in my lap and "hide" in it. I love that she wants to pet it as she goes to sleep. I love that she calls it my "big beautiful hair." I love her, so no matter how much I hate my hair, I'm keeping it for now.

Maybe I should start practicing "Don't it Make My Brown Eyes Blue" right now in case it gets too out of control...

Oh, wait, I already have blue eyes.

"Talking in your sleep," it is.

Read more →

Updated: Lizard Logic

Update: now, by popular demand, with video.

It started Friday night. 

Meg came into our bedroom, her eyes wide. "There's a lizard in my bed," she said. 

     "I don't think so," I replied.

     "Go check," she said, and moved into my spot as I slid out of bed. I was half way to her room before I realized that was what I was doing. Nope, no lizard. I padded back down the hall. 

      "Honey, there is no lizard in your bed, or anywhere in your room," I said, trying to reclaim my spot. 

      "Well, I better sleep here just in case," she replied. She did. On my pillow. 

I thought that was the end of it. It was not. 

All weekend we heard about the lizard. She told me, her Dad, her grandparents, her cousin, and anyone else who would listen about the lizard. When it looked like anyone was getting skeptical, or about to tell her it was just a dream or her imagination, she would demonstrate exactly how the lizard blinked his eyes (very fast), and wiggled his tongue (even faster). 

Pretty sure she convinced more than one person. 



Saturday was the height of the lizard hysteria. Every time Meg needed to go in her room: to take a nap, to get a book, to search for lizards, she would have to show Ryan, and then me exactly where the lizard had sat on her bed. She would show us where his tail had been, and once again demonstrate the eye and tongue movements. She was totally obsessed. I was almost ready to either move her room, or else buy a tiny pair of pajamas for the little bastard so at least he wouldn't be in Meg's room naked. Finally, though, my Mom sense kicked in. 


The next time Meg and I went into her room to look for the lizard I stood in the center in the center of the room and put my arms out. "Lizard," I said, "it is time for you to go home. This is Meg's room and she does not want you here. You need to go home and not come back unless we invite you." I glanced down to see if she was buying it. She looked skeptical. I went on. "We like you lizard, but you can't be here when Meg doesn't want you here. Sorry." A little voice below me yelled "yeah," and I knew that it had worked. 


Don't think we've stopped talking about the lizard. We haven't. At least three times a day we have to discuss the lizard that came into Meg's room and waggle our tongues and blink our eyes. However, now the story ends with "then Mama told him to go home," instead of worries about when he will come back. 


That's fine with me. 


After all, Meg's lizard impression is really damn cute. 

Read more →

Naming the Mess

Our backyard was a big reason we bought our house. 

It was so pretty. 

It was lush, which is rare in Utah. It had a little stream, that ran into a little pond, filled with little fish. A large oak shaded the lovely deck, and held up one end of a hammock. There was a garden, and fruit trees, and vine covered fences. It was so perfect I wouldn't have been surprised to see a large eyed baby deer frolicking in the backyard with his woodland friends. 

Then it all went to shit. 

The oak tree dropped two huge limbs, and had to be taken out due to a bore larger than my hips in the middle of it. Yes, it was that big. With the tree went the hammock, and any shade we had on our deck. Sitting outside became almost as comfortable as sitting in the oven. 

It turned out our little pond, and little stream are fed by little springs, which turned our yard into a big swamp once the water table shifted. After year two the back third of our yard was completely unusable, except for the vines, which sucked it up like blood and grew to Audrey 2 proportions. I suggested we bow them all up, but Ryan went out and tore them out before they could conquer the earth. 

By year three, I never looked outside. I mean, unless I wanted to get really, really depressed. 

Last year, though, we decided enough was enough. I, again,  suggested dynamite, but Ryan went with a series of drains that push the water into cisterns and then the storm drain. We took out the pond completely (after all we have a toddler) and now are looking at the final steps of landscaping. Again, I suggested dynamite, but by now that' just become habit. Ryan is thinking sod and a rock garden. 

Of course, none of this has, or will, come cheap. And that has depressed me even more. So far we have already spent several thousand dollars, and that's just to get it to this: 

You're probably depressed now too. 

Don't worry, though, I have something to cheer you up: I have figured out how to pay for it. 

Two words: naming rights. 

Yep, that's right. I figure there are lots of rich people who like to see their names on things, and at just ten thousand dollars this will be a bargain. I will even pay for the little plaque, and promise to shine it every day. Ryan assures me the whole "naming rights" thing doesn't work like this, but he got his way on the dynamite/reasonable solution argument, so I figure it's my turn. 

Hey, if we manage to get a new tree I will throw in the naming rights for that too. What a bargain. 

Maybe naming rights will even pay the house off. I bet Meg wouldn't mind changing her name to "Citibank Comcast." It's kind of catchy. 

I knew there was a happy ending in there somewhere... 

Read more →

Work to Quit

I have figured out a way to get rid of any bad habit. Find a way to make it your job.


I think it's safe to say I was a web addict. I was blogging, tweeting, Facebooking, and surfing constantly. A good chunk of my free time was spent online. I was attached to my phone. There's a statistic that says the average Smartphone user checks their device 34 times a day. You know what I called those people? Amateurs. 


I was understandably thrilled when an opportunity came open at my office to put my web savvy to the test. Now all of those moments when I thought "wouldn't it be great to get paid for this," were coming true. I really would be living the fingers flying, connected, doing what I love dream that had been inside my head. I just didn't count on one thing: once something becomes work, it's hard to accept it as play too.


Don't get me wrong, I love my job.  I am doing a show that is all about finding the best of the web and putting it on TV. It's a great show. I feel energized. I am loving what I do. I feel like I am bringing people something different, and that they maybe wouldn't be exposed to otherwise. It's just that now when I go online all I can think about is work. I surf sites not for fun, but to find stuff for the show. And even when it could be for fun, it still feels like work. My eyes still burn from the screen glare, but not in the way they used to. It's harder and harder to play with my phone when my family is home because I am not taking "me time" (my former favorite rationalization for my web addiction), but instead am "putting work before family." 


Two months ago you couldn't have pried my phone from my cold dead hands, but now I am putting it down, or even (gasp) turning it off. All it took was making it part of my work. 


That got me thinking. Maybe I could do this with some of my other bad habits, too. If they became a part of my job, maybe I would be able to give them up as well.


Now, I just need to figure out how to convince my boss we need a show on wine drinking, celebrity gossip, putting off exercise, and impulse shopping...


Maybe I can find the answer online. 

Read more →

Seven Years In

As of today I have been married seven years, and I would marry my husband again tomorrow if it were possible.


Mainly because we need new stuff. 


I think that may actually be the source of the "seven year itch." You look around your house and realize the adorable cottage you bought and called your "love nest" is now is desperate need of painting and other repairs. You've broken most of the fancy wine glasses you got as wedding presents, and at least some of the china has chips. Your child(ren) have broken at least one thing you loved, but that is too expensive and impractical to replace. The hand towels are now being used as cleaning rags, and the bath towels that haven't been accidentally bleached just look worn. The chafing dish that an Aunt gave you is still in perfect condition though, mostly because you have never had a reason to "chafe." 


Then you look at your spouse. Like your towels they are worn as well. You both have likely put on some weight.  You've probably lost (or in the case of women, gained) some hair. There is no mystery about what goes on in the bathroom. Every bad habit has been exposed, every argument hashed out at least once, and every nerve has been frayed. If you don't have a strong marriage, I can see why some people would feel something needs to be "scratched." 


Luckily, I have a strong marriage. I can honestly say I love my husband as much, if not more than I did the day I married him, and I know for a fact I like him a lot more. Our friendship has gotten deeper over the years, mainly because the mystery has disappeared. Oh, and because we've never lost our senses of humor. Take last night for example: I was brining a chicken (I am very fancy) and it would not stay under the water. I asked Ryan what he thought I should do. 
      "Put a heavy bowl on top of it." I did, and it worked. 
      "See, that's why I married you," I said. 
      "Yep," he replied,"because I'm a problem solver, and you're a problem maker."


That never would have flown during year two.


I guess that's the trade off. While the shine wears off all of the presents that came with the wedding, over time the marriage itself becomes the gift. Such a gift, in fact, that I don't feel cheesy writing sentences like that one. I actually believe it to be true. Maybe that's what I'll use to comfort myself from now on every time an appliance breaks, or Meg floods the bathroom and ruins the rug, or we realize we need to repair a wall: "this is making my marriage stronger." 


Still, a new down comforter would be nice... 


Happy Anniversary, babe. 

Read more →

Immature Humor

My husband is ten and a half months younger than me. 


That's nothing. On the cosmic scale we are the exact same age. And when it comes to maturity? He is sooo much older than I am. 


Still, he will never let me forget those ten and a half months. 


Some of the time it's in sneaky ways. He will be talking about what he wants to do when he turns 40 (dive an iceberg), and then in the sweetest voice possible will say "well, we really should talk about what you want to do, since you turn 40 first." Other times it will be more direct. For instance he may tell someone that we just met "I am much, much younger than my wife." 


Then there are the times he is so stealthy about it I barely even notice it. 


We both have iPhones. We both have keep them in black cases, because we have a toddler who likes to drop things, and I got a deal on them. This has led to both of us accidentally taking the other one's phone while rushing out the door, which leaves him unable to check his schedule and me unable to easily check Twitter. You can see the problem. The solution we came up with? Stickers. Just glancing at the back of the phone lets us both know who's is who's. Ryan picked the stickers from the hoards that have taken over our house since Meg was born. This is mine:

This is his: 

Get it? 


Maybe I am older than him when it comes to maturity after all... 

Read more →

Right Idea, Wrong Reason

My mother is quitting smoking. But that's not the point of this post. The point of this post is why she is quitting smoking.

Guesses?

Did you say because of her health? You're wrong.

How about because the price of cigarettes is going up, and she is trying to save money? Nope, wrong again.

Did anyone say doing it to help her best friend who is also trying to quit? Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner.

Now, can anyone guess why the friend is quitting? I'll give you a hint, it's not health or money.

Oh, and it's not because smoking is becoming totally socially unacceptable.

Or because it's just generally gross.

Give up? You might as well, because you are never going to guess it.

My Mother's best friend is quitting smoking, and taking my Mom along for the ride, because she is sure the world is going to end on December 21st 2012.

Now, I am sure you are saying "well, if the world is going to end, why doesn't she just enjoy her cigarettes?" After all, that's what I said. You see, she doesn't plan to die in Armageddon, but instead to take off with her family in their RV for a safe place to ride out the storm until society is ready to rebuild.  And in that safe place? It will likely be very hard to find cigarettes. She's quitting now so she won't have to deal with both the apocalypse and nicotine withdrawal.

It would be a brilliant plan if it wasn't so totally and completely insane. And it's led to a brilliant plan of my own.

I am going to start stocking up on cigarettes. If the end of the world is coming, there have got to be some people out there not as prepared as my Mom's friend. There have got to be even more people who will want one last drag before they hurtle out of existence. At the end of days I will be queen -- because I will have all the smokes.

And if the world does not end on December 21st?

I will have one hell of a Christmas present for my mother... and her friend.

Read more →

The Reluctant Bride

I have christened my friend Molly the "reluctant bride."

It isn't that she doesn't want to get married. She does, and rightfully so; her fiance is a great guy. It isn't that she doesn't want to have a wedding. She's really looking forward to celebrating her marriage with her family and his at a small ceremony back east. No, she wants the wedding, and the marriage, she just doesn't want to have to do anything too "bridey." 

Pick out invitations? Not interested. 

Peruse bouquets? She doesn't want to carry flowers.

Fantasize about the perfect cake? There will be no fancy cake. 

Thumb through magazines looking for the perfect dress and hairstyle? She bought the dress years ago (on sale), and figures she will just "figure something out with her hair."

I can't even convince her she needs to register for gifts. Now, that's the one that really got me. After all, they are GIFTS! This is one of the only times in your life as an adult you can ask people to give you nice things, and THEY DO! Right now, if I asked a friend or family member to buy me new bed linens they would A) look at me strange, and B) tell me to buy them myself. Molly could totally get those bed linens though, and no one would bat an eye! She might even get too many sets and have to trade them in for other things like chafing dishes, and fluffy bath towels. 

I actually thought about registering for her, but I decided I don't want to be the "crazy friend" of the "reluctant bride." Also, I was kind of worried if I did that I would have to write the thank you notes for all the gifts. I still have flashbacks of that from my wedding -- and that was 7 years ago. I mean, after about the 76 note about flatware and kitchen utensils all creativity goes out the window.  I think at one point I actually wrote a thank you featuring the sentence "the rack will surely add 'spice' to our marriage."

I digress. 

I guess things could be worse. I could have "bridezilla" as a friend. Or "perfect theme wedding bride." Oh, or the worst bride I have heard of as of late: "grow all the food (including the chickens) for the wedding bride." That one scares the shit out of me. I mean, there is micromanaging, and then there is that woman. I'm sure she pictures perfect plates with home grown herbs sprinkled on them, but I see her curled in the fetal position, covered in chicken blood and mumbling about aphids eating the lettuce. I definitely prefer Molly to that nightmare.  

Still... 

Maybe if I could just get Molly to do one "bridey" thing: like commit to a tea party shower, or go on a crash diet that requires her to be on a feeding tube...

Of course, either of those things might push her over the edge from "reluctant" to "runaway." Dammit. 

If only she would just ask for a toaster. 

WHY DOESN'T SHE WANT A TOASTER?

Read more →

Rove-ing Utah

Three or four times a week I see Karl Rove.

Well, not actually Karl Rove, I don't watch that much FOX News. A Karl Rove look alike. Utah is lousy with them. Men (and, occasionally women, bless their hearts) who look just like the dark lord of the GOP. Not just a passing resemblance either. Dead on. So much so that most of the time Ryan and I (and whoever else may be with us) actually have a short conversation about whether or not it actually is him.

Don't remember what he looks like? Here's a reminder...

Yep. He's a looker.

He looks like roughly 10% the population of Utah. I don't think it's an accident either.

No, I am not saying that "Rove chic" is a thing here. Nor am I saying our genes are Roved (although he did grow up here). What I am saying is I believe people who naturally look like Karl Rove have moved here to find safe haven.

Think about it. It makes sense.

Poor chubby guys (and gals) were living happily in Vermont, or Oregon, or Wisconsin when suddenly, in 2000, they begin being mistaken for what is now the face of the far right wing. They try to lose weight, buy new glasses, buy Subaurus and put HRC bumper stickers on them, invest in shirts that say "I am not Karl Rove," but nothing seems to work. Neighbors start gathering pitchforks. They are pariahs. So, they start looking for a place where the fact they have a Republican doppelgänger  will be a positive.

Utah. The state that would change it's name to "Republicanada" if that didn't sound so much like "Canada" where godless socialists live.

I haven't done the research to prove my theory (that would be work), but I am pretty sure I'm right. I bet if I went through the records at the DMV I would find a large number of balding, pleasantly plump, bespectacled new residents applying for licenses around 2003.

Every time I see a Rovian now I want to tell them to "stay strong." After all, there is a Democrat in the White House now, and probably will be until 2016; eventually Rove will have to retire, and people will forget who he was. Then they can return to their liberal, hippie homes without fearing retribution.

At least I hope that happens. Rove could be having himself cloned, or be planning to have his head jarred ala "Futurama." I really hope that isn't the case though. The more of these Roveugees that come into the state, the more likely that Meg's graduating class will end up looking like an episode of "Face the Nation." How is she going to hang that picture on the wall of her dorm room at Howard University? She'll have to go to Bob Jones University just to fit in.

Of course, there she might actually see Karl Rove.

I just hope she doesn't mistake him for the butcher at our local grocery store. Or the teller at the bank. Or one of the board members of the local Planned Parenthood chapter....

Read more →

The Silent Epidemic

I can't believe we are dealing with addiction before the age of three. 


It started innocently enough, with just a little taste, socially. 


Soon, Meg had to have it daily. Then she demanded it hourly. Now she claims she can't function without it. 


When we don't give her any she goes through horrible tantrums of withdrawal. 


Oh, dear God, Pez addiction is a special kind of parental hell. 

On the surface it seems so harmless. Chalky, fruity, candy that can be doled out in small portions, with a colorful container to hold the rest. 


In reality it is so different. One Pez quickly turns into a whole pack for our sugar starved toddler, and then the empty container mocks her with the fact she NEEDS more candy. She can still smell it on the plastic, still kind of taste the residue if she licks it, and she feels she HAS TO HAVE it refilled. 


There is nothing that can distract her from it, either. No way to make her forget. With other past obsessions (stickers, tic tacs, mylar balloons) she has forgotten all about them once they are gone. She may ask about them once or twice, but more in a nostalgic way. With Pez the dispensers are always there, smiling, reminding Meg she is out of candy. I guess I could throw them away, but I've been on Ebay, a couple of them could eventually be sold to put her through college. 


What makes it even worse is the fact there are so many Pez dealers out there. They hide in plain sight, you would never suspect them. Grandma? Check. Aunts? Check. Friends wanting to bring a "treat?" Big check. I would hope they just are ignorant patsies, unaware of the Pez cartel they are muling for, but I think at least a few of them must actively be working for big sugar. 


Meg will, literally, do anything for Pez. I hate to admit it, but I have actually exploited this at times. That's right, I'm an enabler. 


I can't help it. I'm so weak. 


I am willing to trade Pez for eating six bites of dinner when she is lying on the floor claiming she isn't hungry. I am willing to trade it for hair washing too. I am even willing to trade TWO packs to get her to do things like wear underwear and use the potty for a whole afternoon without an accident. I would trade it for brushing her teeth, but that seems counter intuitive. 


The only thing that gives me comfort is the fact we are not alone in all this. The family next door is dealing with the same situation. Their daughter is four. 


I just hope she and Meg don't steal a car in order to make a score. 

Read more →

Things I Have Learned From Pinterest

I, like pretty much every other person on the planet with two X chromosomes, have fallen prey to Pinterest. How could I not? I'm lazy and would like to be a better person, and Pinterest makes it seem like I can improve my lifestyle by surfing the web. Also, it makes me feel better about my slacker state, because it shows me other people are slacking as well by what they pin. Sure, it may look like they are coming up with great ideas for meals, playtime, and their homes, but I can read the subtext... 

1. No one wants to eat their vegetables -- or chicken breasts.  Seriously, there are so many recipes for chicken on the site at times I think it's sponsored by the poultry farmers of America. Then I remember that chicken breasts are the one thing pretty much everyone buys, and no one really knows how to prepare with flavor. There are equally as many recipes for "jazzing up" vegetables. You know what doesn't need "jazzing" to make it palatable? Ice cream. You don't need a "pin" to remind you. 

2. Everyone is disorganized. Organization tips are the chicken of the home design pages. Oh, and almost all organization can apparently be done with hanging shoe racks. I am expecting any day to see a pin with children stuffed into plastic sleeves hanging on the back of a closet door. 

3. There are very few "good hair" days. Women with straight hair are pinning advice on curling it. Women with curly hair are pinning advice on straightening it. Brunettes are looking for home streaking tips. Blondes are looking at "low lights." Everyone wants to find something "different" and "romantic" to do with it. I'm betting very few do. 

4. Playing with kids can be a drag. I love my daughter, I really do, but there are some times when I just have no idea what to do with her except sit her in front of the TV with a bag of refined sugar. Pinterest let's me know I am not alone. There are thousands of "car games," and "rainy day activities," and "play time ideas" that don't cost a lot of money, and don't need a lot of time to set up. Oh, and most of them can be organized with hanging shoe racks!   

5. Remembering more than five things is hard. Recipes with five ingredients or less spread faster on Pinterest than rumors about celebrity pregnancies on TMZ. Ditto for crafts with five pieces or less, photo shoot ideas with five props or less, and cleaning solutions with five steps or less. I guess six makes our brains explode. 

I've also noticed that a lot of people are apparently planning parties with great themes and really cute food that they aren't inviting me to, but I that's a topic for another post. Or for my therapist. 

Of course, it could just be that the parties are all in their minds... After all, actually throwing a party is work. 

That is sooo un-Pinterest.  

Read more →